


Comfort Food

by missselene



Series: fulfilling for other people [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missselene/pseuds/missselene
Summary: Sherlock has confessed his feelings for John. Can their friendship remain unaffected?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [fulfilling for other people](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9488969) and will probably not make much sense on its own.

John picks up Rosie from the Stamfords exactly at the agreed time. _That_ is what he is supposed to do. Taking care of his daughter. His duty is to her. She is his primary responsibility, not… anyone else. He can’t just leave her with other people all the time, just to spend time with an adult man who should be capable of taking care of himself.

_That didn’t stop you when you wanted to join him on a case last week, did it,_ Not-Mary in his head points out.

But that was different. It was a case. A case could be dangerous.

_You mean fun._

“Fuck all this.” John mutters under his breath. (He should really try to not swear in front of Rosie. She’s starting to pick up words now.)

But anyway, even if he went back to Sherlock now, what help could he be? Surely his presence would only be making things worse for him. Sherlock _told_ him to go away.

On the other hand… Sherlock was clearly in a pretty bad state of mind when John left him. And has a history of illicit substance abuse.

Could he really claim that leaving him alone was in any way _responsible_?

He could call Molly. Sherlock likes Molly. He wouldn’t mind her staying over.

_And of course Molly wouldn’t mind either, because she has no actual life of her own and only magically pops into existence whenever you need something from her._

Which, admittedly, has been quite often lately.

And what would he even say to her? “Sorry, Molly, but could you please stay with Sherlock, he’s in a bad way because he had sex with a rent boy and that reminded him that who he actually wants to have sex with is—”

Okay, no. He can’t do that. He has no right to violate Sherlock’s privacy like that.

And who is he even trying to kid? It has to be him. It’s his job. Whatever Sherlock’s… feelings for him may be, John’s supposed to be his best friend. Best friends don’t leave each other alone when they’re heartbroken and miserable. (Sherlock didn’t, did he? He was there for John even when his face still bore the marks of John’s fists.) John doesn’t _want_ to leave Sherlock alone when he’s heartbroken and miserable.

Right. Mrs Hudson has a travel cot in her flat, and she won’t mind having Rosie there overnight, if necessary. And if she’s out or can’t do it for some reason, John will just have to figure something out.

“We’re going to see Nan, are you excited?”

*

Mrs Hudson is happy to babysit, especially when John explains it’s because he thinks Sherlock shouldn’t be alone right now. He feels like an impostor when Mrs Hudson gushes about him being “such a good friend”.

He feels himself getting more anxious with each of the seventeen steps. He has no more of an idea about what to say or do than he did when he left. But he should be there. He should… assure Sherlock of his continued friendship, somehow, at the very least.

He finds Sherlock curled up on the sofa, asleep.

“Sherlock?”

When he doesn’t wake, John covers him with a blanket and lets him sleep. He could certainly use some time to get his thoughts in order.

Everything looks just like when John left, no drug paraphernalia lying about (but you can never be sure with Sherlock, can you). The only difference is several crumpled tissues scattered on the kitchen table by the place where Sherlock sat when John spoke to him. John looks at them blankly, struggling to understand what they mean. Did all this actually make Sherlock cry? And then pass out from exhaustion? John picks them up (still wet) and bins them.

Sherlock always feels things so much more than John expects him to. How many times has John accidentally hurt him simply because he didn’t think Sherlock _could_ be hurt? He never imagined, not even when he told him to text Irene, that Sherlock might actually… crave affection.

He takes a deep breath to calm down, and, without really thinking, goes to the bathroom to switch of the light that’s been left on. And there, he discovers what is clearly the scene of the crime. The tub his half full of used bathwater with remnants of foam floating on the surface, and a substantial amount has evidently been splashed on the floor and perfunctorily mopped up with a sodden bathmat.

They had sex in the bath. Sherlock and… another man. Sherlock was in the bath, with that pillow that’s now lying in a puddle on the floor probably cushioning his head, with his legs splayed wide and the faceless, nameless man between them, fucking him, water splashing over the rim with every thrust, Sherlock’s moans echoing off the tiles.

He closes his eyes against the onslaught of images, against the mess of roiling emotions in his belly. Then, driven by some sort of irresistible masochistic curiosity, he walks to Sherlock’s bedroom.

There’s Sherlock’s pale blue shirt lying on the floor by the bed, the way it would have fallen when someone pushed it off his shoulders. The bed is unmade. God, did they do it here too? Did Sherlock not gather enough _data_ the first time, not feel _devirginised_ enough, so there had to be another round? With Sherlock’s on his knees, braced against the headboard, gasping for breath as the other man pounded into him, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the air, bed rocking against the wall?

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck_

There’s a wave of nausea-like shame rising in him, but he can’t stop himself. He goes back to the living room to check that Sherlock is still fast asleep, and then locks himself in the bathroom. He braces one hand against the sink and unzips his flies with the other. His cock is rock-hard and leaking already when he takes himself in hand, and it takes only a few rough, furious strokes and a series of pornographic snapshots of Sherlock crying out in pleasure as someone (not someone: John) fucks his brains out, hard and fast and deep, before he’s coming, grunting out his release.

Afterwards, he washes the evidence down the sink, tucks himself in, washes his hands and face, and drains the bathtub and mops the floor to give himself something to do, to stop himself from crumbling on the floor like the piece of shit that he is.

Who the fuck does this? What sort of _monster_ masturbates over his best friend’s first time?

And it’s not even how it happened, he knows it’s not. Sherlock told him he’d specifically asked for someone who would be gentle with him. It’s only John’s dirty, twisted mind that supplied animalistic fucking instead.

Sherlock doesn’t want to be fucked, he wants to be made love to, gently, carefully. And yet, John knows that he could get away with all those things he imagined, and more. He could wake Sherlock up right now and have his way with him, and Sherlock would let him, just like he let him beat the living daylights out of him in Culverton Smith’s hospital.

This is so wrong. Everything’s so, so wrong.

He leaves the bathroom in search of alcohol. He only finds an expensive-looking bottle of port (gift from a client, probably) – not his beverage of choice, but it will have to do. He pours himself a generous measure and goes to sit in his usual chair by the fireplace, watching over Sherlock’s sleeping form in the gathering dark.

Sherlock, who is in love with him.

The thought is overwhelming and terrifying and his mind shies away from it, but he forces himself to think it, to look at it full on without covering his eyes with his fingers. Sherlock is in love with him.

Sherlock is in love with him, and Sherlock apparently thinks so little of himself that he just takes whatever John gives him and never complains, never asks for anything.

Sherlock is in love with him and he planned John’s wedding. Wrote a wedding waltz. Forgave John’s wife without hesitation for very nearly killing him. He killed a man and was ready to go to a suicide mission to keep John’s family safe. He probably did more for John’s marriage than John did. He put himself in the hands of a serial killer in order to help John. He asked if John and Rosie wanted to move to Baker Street and offered to move all his experiments and if necessary even his bedroom to 221C, effectively giving his flat up to John (John declined the offer and didn’t examine his reasons why too closely).

What has John done for him in return? Blamed him for Mary’s death, written him a truly horrible letter that John can’t bear to remember in too much detail without wanting to throw up, hit him while he was dying of kidney failure, been utterly insensitive to his feelings.

Sherlock is in love with him, but John can’t for the life of him imagine why.

Would he even be able to give Sherlock the kind of gentle, affectionate care he craves? John isn’t a selfish lover, he’s always considerate of his partner’s wishes and he’s never been rough unless it was wanted of him. But he’d never beaten a friend into a pulp before either, and that didn’t stop him from doing it to Sherlock. Is there any guarantee that this… _animal_ in him won’t wake up again, and at the most inopportune moment? He’s never had any trouble being gentle to women, but all of his fantasies about sex with men (which haven’t been as few and far between as he’d like them to be) have always bordered on violent.

That can’t happen. He can never hurt Sherlock again, not ever, not under any circumstances, but especially not in a context that’s meant to be loving.

God. Is he actually thinking about it – considering it? A relationship with Sherlock?

He pours himself another glass.

It’s not like the thought’ has never occurred before, but it was always easy to push it way. Sherlock was dead. Then he wasn’t dead but John was getting married, and then John was married, and then his wife was dead and he was grieving. It was always easy to look the other way and not to examine the suspicion (and more than suspicion) that his feelings for Sherlock might not be entirely platonic.

But now, after Sherlock’s confession…

He could just ignore it, bury it deep like he’s always done and never think about it again. That would probably be the safest option. But wouldn’t it essentially mean condemning Sherlock to a lifetime of solitude? Of watching John develop new romantic relationships, possibly another marriage, and never being able to have anything like that himself.

On the other hand, for how long is it actually possible to maintain a one-sided attachment? Wouldn’t the lack of reciprocation eventually wear it down? And maybe then Sherlock would be able to begin a relationship with someone else, someone better suited to give him what he needs…

And if he didn’t? Would Sherlock ever be happy? Could _John_ be happy, knowing? Could John be happy if Sherlock did fall in love with someone else, or would that just inspire… more unjustified rage?

This is a mess. _John_ is a mess. It’s all him, isn’t it? He’s the one who has to fix it. He has to fix it before he can even begin to be a friend to Sherlock worthy of the name, let alone contemplate being anything else.

*

Sherlock wakes in the dark, feeling disoriented for a moment. It was still light when he fell asleep; he has no idea what time it is, evening or morning. He stretches, his muscles protesting – he’s getting too old to sleep on the sofa curled up into a tight ball. He’s covered with a blanked – Mrs Hudson must have come up. Hopefully she brought some food – Sherlock finds he’s ravenous. Is it sex or crying, he wonders idly, that makes you exhausted and hungry? Possibly both.

He sits up, and finds John sitting in his chair.

Sherlock freezes, blinks into the semi-darkness tinged orange by the street lamps. John has his face in his hands and there is a glass and a bottle on the side table (the port Sherlock got after the dognapping case two weeks ago). It’s too dark for Sherlock to tell how much of the contents are gone. What does this mean?

He doesn’t say anything, but he must make some noise because John looks up.

John straightens, clears his throat. “Hey.”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demands, his voice rasping. If John wanted to tell him that they could no longer be friends under the new circumstances, he wouldn’t have come, but if he’s here to _let Sherlock down gently_ …

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Ah. A more prosaic reason, then.

“I can assure you I haven’t taken anything you might object to,” Sherlock snaps and stands up brusquely. He hasn’t noticed his dressing down had nearly come undone in his sleep, and he panics a little as it threatens to unveil his nudity, but he manages to tie it again just in time. (Not that John would care. Seeing Sherlock naked would do exactly nothing for him.) Not looking at John, Sherlock stalks to the bathroom before John can say anything about the fact that the only reason he’s come is the fact that Sherlock is an irresponsible drug addict.

He relieves his bladder and splashes water over his face to wake up properly, and only then does he notice that the water from the bath has been drained and the floor is dry. Which means that John must have done it.

Heat rises in Sherlock’s cheeks. He can imagine few things more embarrassing than John cleaning up after Sherlock’s sexual encounter with another man, after Sherlock told him he was in love with him. (If that term can even be reasonably applied to what was essentially an assisted wank. For a lot of people it would probably not even count as sex. Sherlock will count it, though, seeing as he’s unlikely to ever do anything that would meet the criteria better. And it was, all things considered, probably the best orgasm of his life – his self-inflicted ones are hardly any competition, since he never really takes time with himself.) Well. He’ll just have to grit his teeth and bear it, like all the rest of it.

He goes to his bedroom to get dressed. A part of him wishes to put on a crisp shirt, well-pressed trousers, a perfectly fitted jacket – now that John _knows_ , he’d prefer to have his armour on, to present an immaculate front – to look less like a pathetic fool who still feels a spark of hope whenever John smiles at him. But he refuses to succumb to the urge. He’ll just behave normally and maybe, if he tries hard enough, everything will _be_ normal.

He puts on fresh pyjama bottoms, a worn t-shirt and his burgundy dressing gown instead.

When he emerges from his bedroom, John’s standing awkwardly in the kitchen as if unsure if he’s allowed to sit down (which makes no sense, since he clearly felt comfortable enough to open Sherlock’s bottle of wine). The lines around his mouth and eyes appear deeper than they were a few hours ago, and he seems unable to look at Sherlock. Is this pity? Sherlock doesn’t know if he’ll be able to bear it if it’s pity.

“Where’s Rosie?” he asks, trying to establish a safe topic as soon as possible, to act like everything's normal.

He turns his back to John and opens the fridge. He’s craving his mother’s cottage pie, a childhood comfort food, but he has neither the ingredients nor the energy to make that. He needs something warm and rich and hearty. He could order in, but with John here, he’d rather keep busy than wait for the food to arrive in awkward silence. The fridge is rather empty, but there is a block of cheddar and a half-full bottle of milk – he could make a simple cheese sauce. There should be some pasta in the cupboard.

“With Mrs Hudson,” John says. “Sherlock—”

Aaand there it is. Sherlock feels himself tense as he fills a pot with water.

“I came because it’s where I’m supposed to be. You’re… you weren’t okay. I should be there for you when you aren’t okay. You’ve always been there for me.”

Sherlock stills. That… is not what he expected. He turns to face John, finding him looking at him. John seems sincere. Sherlock is unexpectedly moved – John came to offer Sherlock support, even though it must be incredibly uncomfortable for him. And maybe it’s just John feeling sorry for his poor, stupid friend, but he’s here. Sherlock will take it – it’s what he does. He takes what he can get.

“Thank you, John,” he says thickly. He can feel tears prickle behind his eyes, and turns away from John again and starts rummaging through a drawer, looking for a grater. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

He will be. He feels better already – perhaps it was good to let it all out, both in the sense of telling John how he feels and letting himself cry about it afterwards. John isn’t shunning him – he’ll be fine. It hurts, of course, to know he’ll never know a loving embrace or share his home with a partner – and that he has forfeited all chances of even just a brief, friendly hug from John, since he’s unlikely to want to touch Sherlock at all and Sherlock won’t dare to initiate now, and it’s now more improbable than before that John would ever move back, even just temporarily. It hurts, but the pain will dull with time like it had before – it’s only the thing with Darian that made it flare up again. He only needs some time and to rearrange things in his mind palace, and he’ll be able to live with it comfortably. Or as comfortably as possible.  As long as John remains his friend and is happy again – that’s all he can ask for.

He can feel John’s eyes on him as he pours half a packet of penne into boiling water and grates the cheddar, but he refuses to be made uncomfortable by it. Just focus on the cooking.

John clears his throat. He moves to stand by the kitchen counter on Sherlock’s right-hand side, less than two feet away from him. Sherlock tries not to tense as he searches for a saucepan.

“What are you doing?” John asks, apparently utterly incredulous.

“What does it look like? I can cook. What did you think, that I survive on take away and whatever Mrs Hudson brings?”

“Well, yeah.” John inclines his head apologetically. “You never cooked when I lived here.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It was easier to let you do it. Besides, your cooking’s better,” he adds and attempts a small smile, then winces and ducks his head. Can he still say things like that? Or could anything appreciative he says be misconstrued as a come-on?

“Can I help with something?” John asks after a beat.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No need.” The last thing he needs is for them to accidentally bump into each other as they cook. He tries not to look at John and concentrate instead on not burning anything. He can feel the nervous energy radiating from John.

“Sherlock. There’s – something I should say. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” Sherlock interrupts him curtly, almost burning himself as he carelessly grabs the pot of boiling pasta as some sort of shield.

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Of course I do. You’re sorry but you’re not gay, only ever thought of me as a friend, blah blah blah. Trust me, _I know_. I don’t need to hear it.”

“No, listen—”

“John, please,” Sherlock says through gritted teeth, closing his eyes. “Can we just drop it? I’ll be fine, it’s a privilege to be your friend and I—”

“No it’s not,” John says so sharply and loudly it makes Sherlock flinch and look at him in surprise. “It’s not – that’s what I wanted to talk about.” Panic rises in Sherlock’s chest, but John continues before he can say anything. “Being my friend is actually a pretty shitty deal. I’ve done some terrible things to you.”

“John…” Sherlock exhales, but John shakes his head, so he doesn’t say anything more.

“What I did to you in the – in that mortuary… that was unforgivable, Sherlock. You never did anything to deserve something like that, and you never deserved to be blamed for Mary’s death. I’m sorry.”

He’s looking at the floor with an incredibly pained expression in his face, and it takes all of Sherlock’s self-control not to reach for him.

“John… it’s okay. It’s forgiven. It was a difficult time, you weren’t yourself. I understood.”

Somehow, that makes John look even more miserable. Sherlock doesn’t understand where this is coming from. Is it some sort of misplaced sense of guilt for not returning Sherlock’s feelings? That’s absurd.

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I... accept the apology,” he tries. “Please don’t worry about it anymore.”

John looks up at him then, taking a deep breath. He holds Sherlock’s gaze, even though it seems to take a supreme amount of effort.

“What I mean to say is...Nothing like that will ever happen again. You deserve so much better, and I… I promise to do all I can to be a better friend to you from now on.”

Sherlock swallows around a lump in his throat. It’s… unexpectedly touching to hear John say that. The urge to touch him is stronger than ever, but he resists.

“Thank you,” he manages to get out. “I appreciate it, truly.” He wants to say that John is the best friend Sherlock could ever hope for anyway, that Sherlock did some horrible things to John too, but he doesn't because he doesn’t think it would help. John needs him to accept that promise, not to dismiss is it as unnecessary. And… well. It’s true he’d rather not have John take out his anger on him in the future. Still, the thought of John wanting to be better for Sherlock is decidedly odd, when by all rights it should be – and always has been – Sherlock trying to be better for John.

Maybe it’s the kind of thing that’s supposed to go both ways.

They look at each other and it seems impossible not to. Sherlock wishes he knew how to tell John what it means to him, that John is here, telling him things like that, instead of turning away from him in disgust. He wishes he could hug John, hold him close to his chest like that one, precious time. But that’s impossible now. Not so soon, maybe not ever. He couldn’t bear rejection right now, couldn’t bear it if he felt John tense in his arms, enduring Sherlock’s embrace only because of the guilt he seems to feel.

“Milk!” John exclaims, breaking the moment, and Sherlock turns back to the stove just in time to lift the saucepan off the hob before the milk boils over.

He still isn’t sure why John brought all this up now, how it is related to what happened earlier. He stirs in the grated cheddar, still acutely aware of John’s presence. He can’t help glancing at him repeatedly as he finishes the sauce. It seems clear that there is something more John wants to say – the way he shuffles his feet, the way he licks his lips, he even takes a deep breath as if about to speak – but in the end, he seems to think better of it and says nothing.  He looks down and nods to himself briefly, as if deciding that keeping quiet will be the best course of action.

Well. Sherlock is intrigued, but it’s probably for the best if John never voices whatever is on his mind. It’s likely to be something to do with Sherlock’s feelings, and the less they speak about those the better. If they never mention them again, maybe John will forget Sherlock ever voiced them in the first place, and eventually it will become okay again for Sherlock to occasionally indulge in some minor, friendly touches, to compliment John without feeling like he’s exposing his heart to the elements. Until then, it’s enough that John’s here, wanting to be Sherlock’s friend.

He mixes the penne and the sauce and inclines the pot towards John.

“Dinner?” he offers, aiming for a light, cheerful tone, and is pleased to note he achieves it, more or less.

John smiles at him. It may be brief and a little bit sad, but it’s a smile, and Sherlock’s heart leaps like it always does and will never stop doing.

“Starving.”

 


End file.
